Forty and Eight: Deceptively Short
by Jinhito
Summary: This is a collection of 48 deceptively short word challenges. Each submission has its own individual notes and rating.
1. droll

**title: **droll**  
>word count: <strong>390**  
>rating: <strong>G**  
>notes: <strong>post-canon season 2**  
>definition: <strong>(_adj_) amusing in an odd way

* * *

><p><strong>06. droll<strong>

"So then," Ciel Phantomhive says as he takes one more dubious sip from his afternoon tea, "what you're saying is that your life is at the mercy of my own hand?"

"Yes, that would be a most accurate presumption I suppose," his butler speaks in a manner that is foreign to his tongue. Briefly his master thinks that vaguely veiled insolence suited him better. It is, however, pleasant to finally have the last laugh in a manner of all matters because Sebastian is just a hair shy of groveling and Ciel always did like it best when his servants _begged_.

He places the ivory and gold set teacup on its matching plate as afternoon sunlight frames the back of his tall crush red velvet chair, and this moment may not have been so different from all the others before if but for one vital disparity between then and now.

The slits of his pupils narrow and the sigil burned into the iris of his right eye faintly begins to throb. Sebastian's mark has become his own and it binds them more closely than even a blood relation borne of another can. It is perhaps from this knowledge alone that he does in part feel slightly responsible for the current state of this now pitiful creature before him.

Still the thought of revenge is quite palatable to this new body's tastes; it gives refreshed meaning to decadence as it is by far the liveliest thing he's savored all week. Human food is finally beginning to lose its interest and even though he continues to gorge himself on it daily, Sebastian is right that there is a deeper and darker hunger brewing within him. It is the same feeling that haunts all demons, teetering them to just the verge of starvation.

He puts no emotion into his words as he says them, "and how is this any more different from when I was a human?"

"My Lord?"

Ciel resumes his tea and swallows the rest in one final gulp. Today's blend is superb, but it does not sate him; there will be better more filling meals to come in the near future. For now though he'll enjoy the muted looks of disdain sent his way from the floor down on one knee.

"Don't be afraid," he quips, "_I _won't let you starve."


	2. spurn

**title:** spurn**  
>word count: <strong>374**  
>rating:<strong> G**  
>notes: <strong>canon season 2**  
>definition: <strong>(_v_) to reject with disdain; scorn

* * *

><p><strong>40. spurn<strong>

He watches silently as the young master hacks up clots of coagulating blood and tiny shards of bone. This is his first death; a real one because the previous time didn't count and surely he went out as peacefully as a candle does from breath. This is but one ounce of the truest suffering that he wholly _deserves_. And if it were not for the fact that his young Lord is now immortal and that this action repeated would only be in vain, he'd gladly do it again... and again and again.

Sebastian Michaelis bites hard into the flesh of his lower lip deep enough to draw blood. It doesn't taste nearly as rewarding as even the _thought_ of ingesting Ciel Phantomhive's once sweet soul would have been.

Everything has gone awry and of course he's a bit upset about it; demons are not known for their good sport and had he been anyone else, he'd probably have been smart enough to walk away the moment it was stolen from him unwittingly.

The once frail young body twitches and creaks as organs mend and flesh weaves back shut the gaping hole left by no gentle insertion of his butler's own gloved hand. When he can catch his breath with new lungs, the young master will surely be pissed. Sebastian expects this, but with the binding of their prior contract now in absolute limbo the only thing he can do is stand still and wait for the inevitable.

Another cough, this one less wet. They're at the edge of a shore and he notes tersely the way a demon's blood contaminates a human's. When he began to bleed out, the colour was a rich and vibrant vermilion hue... now it turns almost black as it seeps into the sea like a shadow of the waves.

They may be closer in bond now that they are fundamentally the same; eternal sin coursing through their veins, but when Ciel makes to stand and his butler is instantly at his side to aid him back up as he used to, it is not with any amount of affection that as the young master command to be taken home, Sebastian plainly replies, "Yes, my Lord."


	3. sheath

**title: **sheath**  
>word count:<strong> 355**  
>rating:<strong> G**  
>notes:<strong> pre-canon season 1**  
>definition:<strong> (_n_) case or covering for the blade of a sword, dagger, or the like**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>33. sheath<strong>

Tonight is the first night they will spend together in his home _not_ home, and as they enter through the grand double door antechamber, a fresh glaze of stain on the mahogany stinging his nostrils, he quickly comes to understand that there is nothing this new _butler_ can't do.

He is set down on the lush Persian carpet that greets them in the foyer, his filthy little feet quickly staining the delicate fabric. The look, the scents; these are the things he can only faintly recall in his most private memories... how could it be created on a mere whim so perfectly, so exactly?

"Young Master," he hears his butler call, "is the estate to your liking?

"Have I neglected any detail?"

Ciel feels a shiver grip him from the coccygeal region of his spine and hastily begin to climb vertebrae after vertebrae up his back; true fear's touch is cold and surprisingly methodical. But despite his current state of undress and uncleanliness, he is no more abashed than when he first cried out for a savior on the even colder stone floor of his holding cell.

"Not one," is the response that echoes back through the empty halls.

For him, it is no question how any of this has been made possible, Ciel knows he's paid for everything in full; the price he'll pay at the end of their engagement is certainly justified now by these means... he need only learn to command it as a General does his army, as a soldier does his sword.

Turning on one heel, he looks up directly into the red, red eyes of his glowering new specter whose insidious black shadow devours any and all moonlight shining through the open front doors.

"Now draw me a bath and prepare me for bed," he instructs with the same detached phrasing his own mother once used to bade the servants who cared for him each night.

Gentle hands that are distinctively warm slowly begin to wind around him, nearly devouring him as well, and he feels the hot breath of his demon whispering in his ear, "Yes, my Lord."


	4. slake

**title:** slake  
><strong>word count:<strong> 395  
><strong>rating:<strong> R  
><strong>notes:<strong> post-canon season 2 (maybe shota?)  
><strong>definition:<strong> (_v_) allay thirst, desire, wrath by satisfying**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>37. slake<strong>

His lithe little pink tongue traces a wet path from cheek to ear and his breathy voice keens patiently against the smooth skin of his dependent, "how long has it been?"

He wants to know not because it's important and not because he cares, but because digging deeper into the wound of Sebastian's helplessness pleases him... **greatly**, because this is one of the few moments in their long, long lives together that he will ever be able to truly flex his muscle and cause the other to quake in a definite heady need over something so simple, so small.

"You're hungry are you?"

"Just a taste..." he hears him murmur between barely audible pants, how funny that this once all powerful demon can be made to resemble some cheap wanton whore. Ciel slowly begins to slide up against his butler in a rather compromising position; they're now chest to chest with undead hearts still from beating centuries before, but the heat their bodies seem to generate is much the same as it once should have been in life.

Blue eyes flash red and this fickle lover of teasing affection is back at his throat nipping and abusing the skin stretched over ever resilient cartilage. He smirks between bites, "what _ever _would you do without me?"

Sebastian, however, is not inclined to answer; heavier frustrations weigh his mind, that of hunger and unfathomable emptiness trump every other instinct and he is screaming on the inside, dying in fact, for just one morsel of a soul that he can overtly smell lingering at the corners of Ciel's lips. The boy must have recently fulfilled a contract and already has hastily engorged himself on it. The sanguinary parfum of it is overwhelmingly sickening and sinful, but he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into his master all the same. It's been so very long since his last meal...

"My Lord..." now the demon is close to tears; the game has run it's course. Ciel was once told by his maternal Aunt, Madame Red, that he had a weakness in him for pitiful things.

But he thinks otherwise as he regurgitates then gnashes up a remnant of essence before force feeding it to his charge. Pity and sadism are not the same thing; looks are every bit deceiving as he allows Sebastian to feast at his mouth.


	5. gush

**title:** gush**  
>word count:<strong> 585**  
>rating:<strong> G**  
>notes:<strong> post-canon season 2**  
>definition:<strong> (_v_) flow out or issue suddenly, copiously, or forcibly, as a fluid from confinement 

* * *

><p><strong>20. gush<strong>

"Sorry for the delay Young Master, it was quite difficult to secure some of the items you requested," his servant, Sebastian Michaelis, sets down a small silver tray stacked high with tea, cups, plates, silverware, cakes, sweets, and the like. He's been gone nearly two hours longer than anticipated, Ciel is not happy that his compulsory afternoon brew is late in it's arrival.

"I trust you have good reason?"

It isn't really a question he asks though. Sebastian makes no move to begin explaining the matter as he's well aware that his tardiness is beyond excuse. He settles down on one knee after removing his starchy wool outer jacket, it will only hinder him in the process of preparing food and drink for his master.

With the speed only a demon commands, his dress shirt sleeves are furled up and over his forearms and his white gloves are busy at work placing forks, knives, spoons and plates before his sullen young ward. Ciel is not nearly as patient as he ought to be and has already devoured a strawberry tart his eyes fastened onto the moment his butler had sauntered in through the study's wide oak double-doors. He sits with his fists clenching in his lap to resist the temptation of reaching for something else; God damn the Devil if he isn't already starving to the near point of death.

But he does not know hunger, not truly. Sebastian takes his time sifting the leaves before steeping them into the hot pot of waiting water. It's an excellent blend, he comments to his master, it hails from the mysterious isles of Eurasia and only a very few are fortunate enough to ever let the taste linger on their lips.

And now Ciel is digging his black painted fingernails into the soft flesh of his thighs, they're far too sharp for his liking, but even if he asked to have them trimmed it would matter not... everything grows back quick now with a vengeance just as the eye hidden beneath his customary eye-patch reformed itself no less than one month ago.

They're playing at a game only a few are privy to the rules. Three times a day, he eats food, drinks water... he even socializes with people in the ways a young lord is expected to, but all of these engagements leave him more hollow and empty on the inside than the last as time continues to wear at him. He will never celebrate another year of life, only another day of death. He will never grow up and he will never grow old. Ciel Phantomhive will only ever be a petulant little child completely dependent on the care he demands from others.

Sebastian has finally finished pouring his tea and offers forth a steaming cup of the brew in a show of almost gentle reverence. His gloved hand is instantly slapped away and a deep red liquid splatters abruptly all over the fine Persian rug spread out neatly beneath the young master's desk.

"Where is _**it**_?" Ciel hisses, grabbing him forcefully by the collar of his shirt with a strength no child should possess.

"Ah, you must have been very hungry... my apologies."

The little lord's visible eye flashes red for just a second and then he's pulling Sebastian closer waiting for something promised. The older demon fixes a complacent smile on his fine lips and opens his mouth willing to better allow Ciel to suck the life out of him, literally.


	6. prim

**title: **prim**  
>word count:<strong> 535**  
>rating:<strong> G**  
>notes:<strong> canon season 1**  
>definition:<strong> (_adj_) formally precise or proper, as persons or behavior 

* * *

><p><strong>29. prim<strong>

He watches silently from the left-hand side of the dining room table. Ciel is just beginning the first part of his afternoon meal. Ripened fruit from the market Finn was sent to visit earlier that morning is arranged neatly in a small decorative bowl before their master. The young lord has never been one partial to either fruits nor vegetables served to him raw, but today his curiosity seems piqued by a few of the stranger looking items on display.

His left hand tentatively reaches forward and he palms through a few of them before finally choosing one; a rather large red apple. He gently slides his ringed thumb over the glossy surface, admiring the residual sheen left by the food wax that was intended to make this particular apple look even more appealing than any other. It seems to tempt him, thinks Sebastian marveling at the irony of their delightful circumstance; himself playing the role of the devil, his charge the human fated to sin.

The butler offers to remove the flesh for his young master's pleasure, but is decidedly ignored as Ciel bites down hard into the fruit. His teeth tear into the delicate skin easily enough and the loud crunch preceding the wet and sloppy sounds of his slow mastication are the only thing that consumes the hall while they await other dishes to be served.

As he eats, juices from the fruit comes dribbling slowly down the corners of his chin. Though Ciel is a child, this sight is not wholly acceptable for a lord of a manor and Sebastian makes move to tell him so while removing a stark white handkerchief daintily from his breast-pocket. He steps closer to his young master and bows deeply to reach the level of his face. He begins to dab lightly at the sticky sweet mess glistening all about Ciel's mouth.

"My, my..." Sebastian remarks, "that is no way for a young lord to ingest anything. There exists an idea called manners and I am certain you have not forgotten yours."

Ciel slaps the hand away petulantly, it only makes him look all the younger. "I see no reason for any propriety in my own home. Leave me be."

"Ah, but Young Master, there are always appearances to keep no matter who is your audience - captive or not. I would like to remind you of one of the most sincere lessons that any demon could ever hope to teach a human." Sebastian straightens back up to his full height and returns the dampened white linen to his pocket before moving to readjust his gloves.

"And pray tell, what would this lesson be?" Ciel's patience is running as thin as his lips, a minute more of this and he'll have Sebastian out of his sight doing other less savory things in the manor. Meilin isn't so clumsy that she can't fetch the rest of his afternoon meal in his butler's stead.

"Why, Young Master," Sebastian gestures to politely excuse himself and before he reaches the door, he turns to eye his ward with ruby eyes as red as the apple he's holding, "it is important that evil people look good on the outside."


End file.
